Picking up the Pieces
by junejuly15
Summary: This is my take on Sherlock's state of mind after he left John and Mary's wedding. If you have not seen 'The Sign of Three' beware of spoilers. If you have, please embrace the angst ...


**This is my take on Sherlock's state of mind after he left John and Mary's wedding. If you have not seen 'The Sign of Three' beware of spoilers. If you have, please embrace the angst ...**

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**Picking up the Pieces**

Sherlock left through a side door. The lights in the ball room were quickly changing from blue to purple to green, painting garish circles onto the floor, the walls and the laughing faces. When the door clicked shut behind him, the music grew numb, as if someone had wrapped the loudspeakers in cotton wool.

Without a glance back he shrugged into his coat and swiftly walked away into the dark.

_I need to get away. Away from all this ... I can't breathe._

Sherlock inhaled shakily, more greedily then, sucking in the cool night air. He shivered and huddled deeper into his coat, which was so much more than just this. It was his shell, his armour, the outward sign of the role he was playing and that had been assigned to him:

He was Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective, the only one in the world.

Yes, that was what he was known and renowned for.

Not Sherlock Holmes, the person, the man, the friend. And most certainly not Sherlock Holmes, the liked or even loved one.

His hands stuffed deep into his coats pockets Sherlock walked on and on, through the parklike gardens surrounding the hotel, further and further away from the dull hilarity, the crowd.

Sherlock walked without stopping until he had reached the village green, deserted at this hour. Like in hundreds of other such villages all over England the green was surrounded by small stone cottages, most of them dark and giving the air of being deserted, the villagers sleeping at this _ungodly hour_. Sherlock snorted at the predictabilty of it all.

But he recognised that the brisk walking had occupied his senses, his body, and stopped it from hurting too much, _just stopped it_.

Sherlock straightened his back and stood still, he liked that he was standing in the shadow of a large chestnut tree, invisible for anybody who might sneek a look through the windows of one of the cottages. Old habits die hard. The need to cover his tracks and to stay in the shadows had not quite left him yet.

Moriarty's legacy, he thought bitterly.

But today he had been so good! - And for God's sakes he had tried so hard! - And he had gone to all sorts of unspeakable trouble beforehand.

'How to fold napkins', a two-minute how-to-video on youtube, spending hours studying John's family tree, working out the perfect seating arrangement for the reception, and he had even pointed out those of John's friends who hated Mary. He had sat through an excruciating afternoon at Harrod's, watching Mary's plain bridesmaids trying on ridiculous dresses in ten different hues of lilac. His lips curled into a mocking smile when he thought of this waste of an afternoon.

The hardest part had been writing the speech, of course - _sentiment_ - Not his strong suit, but Lestrade had helped. Sherlock was sure it had turned out reasonably well if the guests' reactions were anything to go by. Sherlock certainly had no references stowed away in his mind palace. Where from? This was the first wedding he had ever attended.

And there was the stag night ... yes, their night out had been a success, he had to admit.

Sherlock closed his eyes, he could and he wanted to recall all the details. From the pub crawl, the drinks, the carefully measured amounts of alcohol to keep them pleasantly lightheaded, to the brawl he had had with some punter over _ash_ and how John had pulled him away. He remembered the sleepy almost hugs on the stairs and the game they had played slumped in their chairs at 221B.

And he remembered the touch.

How John had leaned forward, a drunken smile on his face, curiosity glimmering in his eyes. His warm hand on his knee, the puzzled expression on his face and the astonished 'I don't mind'.

It would have been so easy to get more from him that night, child's play. But Sherlock had not moved, had just said _me neither,_ or something else or other, but anything he could have said would have fallen painfully short for the monster that had been this moment.

A client had called at the most inopportune time and they had focused on her and her story, sitting next to each other on the couch, close. When Sherlock had placed his hand on John's back, his thumb drawing small, tender circles, he had smiled and leaned into his touch. John had liked being touched by him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and pressed both hands against his temples. 'Stop it!'

He felt the warmth then, felt the tears, those traitors he had so sucessfully kept at bay all day. And he let them come. He just let them come, let them run down his cheeks and drip onto his scarf. He made no sound and did not move, but cried silently in the shadow for all he had lost today.

John and Mary would have a family of their own, they would be occupied with their life, with their baby, and despite what their looks had tried to convey half an hour ago, he knew he would be alone again. Their lives would slowly drift apart, of course, there was so much to consider, their jobs, their house, their whatever, and most importantly John simply could not continue running around London, playing with fire, risking his life. Not now that he had a family to think of, to care for.

Maybe this was all for the best. They certainly would not know what to talk about anymore and John would become a husband and a father, so ordinary and dull and Sherlock would be more than glad to be rid of him.

Yes, that's what it would be like.

Sherlock straightened his back. His cheeks were wet with tears, but he made no attempt to wipe them away, he just turned around and walked back the way he had come. The wedding party surely was well under way now, the music loudly throbbing, people dancing like maniacs, losing all sense and dignity - _how dreadful_!

Halfway there he stopped and on impulse he fished his mobile out of his coat pocket. He quickly found the number he was looking for.

'A cab, please. London, Baker Street.'

Sherlock listened to a tinny voice and nodded, 'Yes, that's fine. Just pick me up outside the Manor Hotel.'

He continued slowly walking back, sure the cab would be already waiting for him in the drive when he arrived.

A successful day it had been, really, hadn't it? John and Mary happy, Major Sholto still alive, a couple married, a speech held, a case solved. Sherlock's lips curled into a half smile. It looked as if everybody had gotten what they wanted - _Everybody happy, everybody smile._

Suddenly Sherlock's heart clenched and he doubled over with the pain. He tried to breathe shallowly, evenly, but all he was capable of was letting out the pain in gasps. It was a soring pain, an excruciating one, and one that needed to be stopped. Sherlock closed his eyes and opened them again to a startling revelation.

He knew exactly how to ease that pain, knew it from _before John_. Of course, there always was a way to forget, a way to float, a way to be numb.

Sherlock tried to straighten his back again, ignoring the pain in his heart. A sneer disfigured his pale face.

Huddling deeper into his coat he walked the remaining yards to the hotel driveway.

Yes, he knew exactly how to numb this pain.

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**A/N**

I know, this is nothing but a dose of angst and sadness, but honestly Sherlock alone at the end of that episode broke my heart (and Sherlock Holmes taking drugs at the end of 'The Sign of the Four' is canon, I'm afraid).

This one-shot was written very quickly and it's quite rough, I think, so please excuse if there are any mistakes.

Thank you for reading :)

JJ


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